Spring Cleaning the Music Room
A desultory register reveals
kit enough for half the LSO—
panpipes, tambourine, two glockenspiels,
piano, bodhrán, violins, banjo,
guitars (one Spanish, one electric bass)
I could go on and on I’m sad to say.
but must admit, at risk of losing face,
there’s almost nothing here that I can play.
How come the birds, who must have tiny brains,
make music Keats and Shelley swooned to hear,
while I’ve forked out hard cash and taken pains
and practised scales for year on year on year?
How come that thrush, who never learned recorder,
plays every sodding note in the right order?
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Annie Fisher would be
pleased to hear them.